Riding the line

She grew up barefoot on gravel roads,

In a small town, that you don’t know.

She learned to be tough, learned to hold her own,

But her heart beats soft, like a whispered tone.

She rides her motorcycle through the evening air,

Chasing peace in the silence there.

Between the grit and the grace, she’s carved her place,

A balance found in the wild, open space.

Hands calloused but her touch is kind,

A gentle soul with a steel-trap mind.

She’s held it together when the cracks appeared,

Facing every storm with nothing but her gear.

She rides her motorcycle through the evening air,

Chasing peace in the silence there.

Between the grit and the grace, she’s carved her place,

A balance found in the wild, open space.

No choice but to wear the weight she’s known,

A world that’s heavy, but she’s never alone.

The road hums a song only she can hear,

It’s the sound of strength, it’s the voice of fear.

She’s a paradox in leather and lace,

A wildfire spirit with an angel’s face.

Rough edges softened by a heart of gold,

A story of balance yet to be told.

She rides her motorcycle through the evening air,

Chasing peace in the silence there.

Between the grit and the grace, she’s carved her place,

A balance found in the wild, open space.

Rough edges softened by a heart of gold,

A story of balance yet to be told.